Letters To the Universe
by Lord Zeuss
Summary: A collection of short ficlets. Liara reuniting with Shepard on Ilium. Shepard's wake after Collector attack. Jack gets a lesson in self-respect.
1. Liara

_A/N: This is just something I wrote for my brother, who has major heartsies for Liara. And since he's done a number of art pieces for me, I figured it was about time I return the favor, despite some insistent close-mouthedness from him regarding what exactly I should do for him. As a result, it is his Shepard in the story, and not any one of mine._

_Further A/N: I have not, and do not plan to, read Mass Effect: Redemption.  
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_"Have you faced an asari commando unit before? Few humans have." Liara's voice reverberated ominously, eyes flaring with contained menace. Implicit threat dripped from her words with the learned ease of a delicately choreographed dance. The businessman shrank, intimidated as much by her reputation as her display of hostility.

Such was the game she played.

"I'll make this simple," she said, making important little gestures with her hands to increase the effect of her declaration. "You pay me," she intoned, "or I flay you alive—with my mind!"

As she spoke those last few words, Liara heard the door to her office open and immediately she could feel his presence in the room. It was not something she could describe, no single sense alerted her that it was him. Rather, it was akin to feeling some unspoken spiritual bond reconnecting.

Instantly, she closed the transmission, shutting off what further words the man might have for her; she was no longer concerned with that particular responsibility. Her heart rate spiked violently. The last thing she wanted to do in that moment was face him, because she was mortally terrified of what she would see.

It wasn't that she was afraid he would be different, that he wouldn't be the Shepard she remembered, but rather she was afraid he would be _precisely_ the same person she remembered. The same Jonathan Shepard who had been touched by the immortal legacy of the long-lost Protheans, who not only rescued her from the rampaging geth, but had prevented the galaxy-wide annihilation of life by the Reapers, killed the treacherous Spectre Saren, and brought peace to her conflicted mother Benezia in her final moments. She was afraid most of all that he would still be the man she had loved, and lost.

Liara turned her head, and there he was.

All the foreknowledge in the galaxy was as nothing before the visceral reality before her eyes. Two years she had steeled herself against this day, should it ever come, only to find in this instant that all her preparation was as vain as a young girl's obsession with high fashion. That one infinitesimal instant seemed to stretch out into eternity as her feelings all came rushing to the surface at once, forming a curious bubble of complete and utter emotional confusion, a feverish paradox preventing her from truly feeling any of them.

She tried to open her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Liara wasn't even sure what her face was saying. She feared it to be the cold, emotionless mask she'd taught herself. Though it felt like an eternity, mere seconds passed before she finally summoned the will to take a step toward him.

"Shepard..." she said, failing for further words as she began rushing to close the space between them. As Liara took in the sight of him, she could clearly see the strength, the passion, the will burning brightly within him. His eyes blazed with life.

He caught her up in his arms. Liara moaned inwardly to feel that embrace once again, before this too was caught up in that emotional bubble which prevented her from speaking, lest it burst and everything come out all at once.

She hugged him fiercely, afraid to let him go and this should prove to be just another of her fevered dreams of impossible desire and longing, the ones that had haunted her for two long years since hearing those fateful last words: _"Liara, go!"_

Finally, she found herself crying. Not in violent, wrenching sobs of forlorn yearning, but gentle, desperate tears of thankfulness—to whatever god, goddess, or other deity had brought her Jonathan back to her.

Shepard kissed her softly on the top of her head. His voice carried with it a world of comfort. "They told me at the docking station you were here," he whispered. "I don't think I really believed them until now."

As he held her and she him, Liara felt her jumbled emotions begin to smooth themselves out and flow properly once more, until finally she trusted herself to speak. "I've missed you so much, Jonathan."


	2. Wake

_Note: This is unrelated to the previous installment._

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_**Wake**

How many glasses did they need? It wasn't really that big an issue, since the cabinet was well-stocked with fine crystal glasses, as many as they might end up needing, but Ashley Williams made a point of counting each glass individually as she tried to remember who all was coming.

Her mind was obsessing over all the little things, the minor hassles of life providing for a convenient diversion for her thoughts, which currently ran the gamut from apathetic to major depression. Either her hair wasn't done over enough despite her spending three hours on it that morning, or the makeup on her face—once ridiculed, now a necessity—couldn't disguise the dark circles under her eyes. Or the penthouse suite provided by the asari Consort was in some incomprehensible way unpresentable.

She wasn't really thinking rationally, but at least she was thinking again. This crew reunion had been her idea, and all the preparations had given her something to do, had kept her busy while the politicians made their speeches and promised their reforms and generally got nothing done but sounded so self-assured about it. She had a chance to worry about the little things that generally didn't matter to her; things like the way her hair looked, deciding what shoes to wear, buying liquor.

Captain—now Councilor—Anderson was finding all the remaining crew members from the Normandy, and Sha'ira had graciously offered the use of her new chambers for the wake. Ashley was seeing to all other preparations.

It was hard to believe it had been two months since the destruction of the Normandy. Since recovering most of the surviving crew, Alliance S&R teams spent weeks combing the area until finally they gave up, admitted defeat. Shepard wasn't coming back.

There had been no public funeral, as the Alliance wanted to downplay any possible loss of morale coming off the victory of the Citadel. Furious, Ashley had confronted Anderson about it, but his wall of regretful reasoning was impenetrable. She'd listened quietly, then decided the Alliance could screw themselves.

_Crash._

A crystal wine glass had, of its own accord, leaped from her hands and shattered on the marble floor just inches from a soft rug that might have saved it. Ashley blinked.

"Williams." A voice from behind her, Anderson. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Williams women didn't cry, Ashley reminded herself. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking, though." She looked awkwardly at the broken glass fragments now all over the floor. "I was trying to remember how many people are coming and I got carried away counting."

"Tell you what," he said, "you start setting out the glasses, and I'll take care of this mess."

"Thanks, Captain," she said, using his old rank out of familiarity.

"That's what I'm here for, Chief."

While Anderson swept up the remains of the wine glass and Ashley set down a row of glasses on the wet bar, the familiar scritch-scratching sound of crutches dragging along the ground announced Joker's arrival, well in advance of the scheduled time.

He waved wearily. "Hi there, Ash. Captain, sorry Councilor. Mind if I come in?"

"Sure, come in and sit down. Do you need any help?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," Joker replied, hobbling straight to the bar and pouring himself a full glass of tequila before Ashley had even put any ice in the cup. "I just couldn't stand waiting around," he explained, taking a long sip of his liquor. "Can I get some ice?"

The past several weeks had done a number on Joker. He'd always been a small man, but he seemed downright skeletal now, even if there had been no actual change in his stature. His attitude was one of crushed defeat. He was no longer the ceaselessly funny, one-liner spouting jackass pilot, bearing more resemblance to an undertaker.

Ashley, who'd at first blamed Joker for Shepard's death, had quickly come to realize just how hard it had hit the man. No one knew more than Joker that he was arguably responsible for the mortal fate of their commander, and he took it harder than probably all of them, Ashley included. Where she'd had trouble sleeping the first few nights, Joker didn't sleep at all for weeks following the attack.

Chakwas said he spent those nights drinking and feverishly trying to apologize to Ashley in a letter for killing the man she loved; a letter he could never finish.

That was when Ashley realized how foolish it was to blame him for what happened. It wasn't his fault, more so for the fact that he insisted it _was_.

The doctor herself appeared only fifteen minutes after Joker showed up. By then, Ashley had gotten all the glasses filled with ice and had all the beverages laid out on the counter. She was proud of herself for not having broken anything else. She made herself smile for the doctor. "Don't worry," she said, "we didn't let him hurt himself."

Joker hiccuped with resigned misery. "Despite my best efforts. And I was trying really hard."

Chakwas managed a genuine smile—something hard for any of them to do. "Yes, I see. Hello Ashley, Councilor Anderson. Is it alright if I join you?"

"Go right ahead, Doctor," Anderson replied. "I'd expect the others to start arriving shortly."

Ashley distracted herself by pouring oddly-colored nuts into serving bowls. She realized they were dextro-amino food for turians and quarians, decided against putting them in with the rest of the snacks.

The irony of having to resort to frivolous thoughts about snack food almost made Ashley laugh at herself. _Now there's some well-adjusted priorities._

Abruptly, she remembered something. "Doc, where's Liara? I thought she might be with you."

Chakwas' expression was troubled. "I'm sorry, Ashley, but I haven't seen Liara in weeks."

"Did you try calling her?" she shouted, more frustration showing through than she'd intended. "What about C-Sec, did you check if they have any new information? She can't have just disappeared, Doc!"

No one had heard from Liara.

When the asari had first locked herself in her rented apartment on the Presidium and refused visitors, Ashley and the others had let her have her space. As her solitude continued with no signs of abatement, first Ashley, then eventually Anderson had tried to reach her, without success. Discreet C-Sec inquiries into the matter unearthed little about Liara's activities, keeping them in the dark. Her personal financial accounts underwent frantic fluctuations, with assets transferring to first one institution, then another in a seemingly random pattern. And all the while no one saw or heard from the asari doctor.

To all indications, Liara had entirely isolated herself from the rest of the Citadel, all without ever leaving her apartment. Her absence had long since crossed the point of excusable grief and a desire for solitude, and her cloak-and-dagger tactics of continued refusal to show herself, even for an occasion such as this, were insensitive to the rest of them.

But, of course, Dr. Chakwas had control over none of this. Yelling at her wasn't going to change Liara's mind about being a recluse. The asari's intractability didn't justify Ashley castigating her own friends.

Ashley took a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm sorry, Doctor, that was out of line. It's just—I feel like she should be here."

"It's alright, Ashley, I understand," Chakwas said with a sad smile. "I always wondered why someone of such profound intelligence would choose to remain so isolate from the rest of the galaxy. Now, I suppose we may never know."

"If she'd wanted to be here, I'm sure she would be. But she isn't," Anderson said solemnly. "We can all take from that what we will."

If Liara had wanted to reach out to any of the people she considered friends, then she would have. No one said anything, but the understanding was clear to them all: The crew of the Normandy had taken one more casualty.

Garrus arrived next, a counter-balance desperately needed to all the gloom settling in among the congregated. He was carrying two big armfuls of odd-looking produce, and the resultant sight of a turian bearing groceries was so outrageously incongruous that, glum as she was, Ashley couldn't help but find humor in it.

"Hey, Garrus. What in the world are you carrying?"

The turian gave his produce a contemplative look. "Oh, this? Well, I've heard stories of what humans do during wakes, and it sounds like I'm going to need a lot of things to eat. I couldn't be sure you'd remember that I can't eat your food; after all, you humans are all racist." He gave Ashley a wink.

She chuckled. "Yeah, that was good thinking. I'm glad you could make it, Garrus."

"What? Was I going to miss Commander Shepard's wake? After everything I've heard about this strange human ritual?" His wit was indefatigable. Garrus was a hardy soul.

"You know, I can still remember Shepard walking into the Ambassador's office with a ticked-off turian and an unpaid krogan mercenary just behind him," Anderson remarked, obviously trying to stir up conversation. "Embassy security made such a fuss at the front door, but Shepard just gave them a stare and waved his old Internal Affairs badge, then they had to let him through."

Garrus laughed. "The ambassador wasn't particularly pleased to see so many aliens in his office. He's lucky we never threw raves there."

"Garrus, do you know if Tali'Zorah nar Rayya is going to be able to make it here?" Dr. Chakwas asked. The quarian in question had last spoken with Garrus.

"Yes, I think so," he replied. "She says she has to leave for the Migrant Fleet, but that she'll make time for friends."

Ashley poured herself a shot of whiskey and sat at the bar, listening to the conversation as people trickled in a little at a time. Fortunately, Garrus was a social nucleus and the turian provided the much needed bright-side outlook that she certainly couldn't, cracking jokes and telling humorous stories even Ashley was uplifted by. Even Joker seemed to recover some of his good spirits when Garrus was around. When Tali arrived she gave Ashley and Joker both big hugs, apologizing that she wasn't staying for much longer, that she needed to catch a ship off-station in only a few hours.

Tali was a responsible adult now, that was hard for Ashley to get her mind around. The quarian was still young in so many ways, but since completing her pilgrimage by quarian standards she was a fully-fledged adult. Once she returned to the fleet, none of them were likely to see her again. At least there was time enough to say proper goodbyes and spend one last occasion among friends. Ashley would miss her like a sister.

They talked for a bit, Ashley inquiring about what Tali planned to do when she got back to the Migrant Fleet, Tali wanting to hear about Ashley's sisters. It was devastatingly normal. Ashley excused herself for a drink and sat herself down at the wet bar.

She was approached by Sha'ira, the hostess, who was dressed in unusually casual attire, and to Ashley's surprise she said nothing. Ashley had seen her say a few words to Joker, realizing with a start that she must have seen him several times during the past few weeks. She remembered joker saaying something about someone who was helping him "work some things out", and that someone she now knew could only have been the consort.

_If that's what works_, she thought to herself as she sipped a glass of whiskey, intending to preserve the silence between her and Sha'ira if the other woman didn't want to talk. She was making no indication of expecting any kind of interaction with Ashley whatsoever.

Ashley sat uncomfortably, she swished the ice in her glass and felt like a fool, pretending the woman didn't exist. "Thanks for talking to Joker," she said finally. "I think he really needed someone after Shepard..." _After Shepard died because of him._

Ashley took another drink.

"His is a good soul. He may doubt it now, but he will find his wings again," Sha'ira responded in an even, compassionate tone. "He feels the weight of responsibility for a consequence that was not of his design. It is a burden I have known myself."

Ashley was surprised. She'd expected either aloof serenity or some kind of mystical prescience

to match Sha'ira's larger-than-life reputation, but instead there was only heartfelt empathy expressed from one person to another. In fact she seemed more like a therapist than a mystic, albeit a therapist who genuinely cared.

The thought triggered a memory. Shepard didn't like therapists.

"Did you know John?" Ashley suddenly asked, despite her every intention not to ask that question.

The ghost of a smile touched Sha'ira's lips. "Yes, once. A number of years ago. But he was very different then. When he came to the Citadel this past year, he may not even have remembered me, or he might have known who I was and simply wished to avoid revisiting what were for him very bad memories. I respect his reasons for not wanting to see me, whatever they were, but I do regret the opportunity lost."

Her face filled with melancholy and quiet pride. "I knew him as a damaged man, the scars on his mind seeming as irreversible as death. Akuze wreaked untold horrors on his soul, but I would deceive myself if I were to claim that I had any hand in his recovery. How he was able to pull back from the brink of madness was a feat uniquely his, one which I could neither facilitate nor understand, and may even have impeded."

As a result of what had happened on Akuze, Shepard suffered a nervous breakdown, according to Alliance doctors. He didn't talk about that very often, usually deflecting like subjects towards discussion of his rehabilitation with a synthetic arm, obviously preferring the memory of physical recuperation over mental. He'd conquered both challenges.

"Nothing kept him down, not forever," Ashley said, flashing back easily. "The galaxy threw everything at him and he just kept on coming back twice as strong. The beacon, the geth, Saren, the Council, the Reapers—he was a special kind of thick-headed." Ashley swallowed back the lump in her throat. "God, I miss him."

Suddenly, Ashley stood with a purpose, immediately garnering the attention of all present as she raised her glass. "I propose a toast," she said.

"To our Commander and fellow soldier, John Frederick Shepard, and the things he taught us about ourselves and the people we call friends. He taught us to make our futures, and that just as idiots and hypocrites remain the same across race and even species, so too do honest and honorable men and women. He taught us to stand for the rights of sentient beings, whether human or alien, to live in freedom from fear and hate. To Shepard!"

"Aye!" Anderson shouted, raising his own glass high. "To Shepard!"

"To Shepard!" Joker yelled, gesticulating drunkenly.

"Indeed," Garrus grunted. "To Shepard. To the man who dragged us kicking and screaming to where we are today—still safe from the Reapers and free to screw up all on our own."

The round of cheers passed through the room, each person adding their own sentiments to the toast before all drinking in unison. Before she did, Ashley added one last thought. _To you, o' Captain, my Captain._


	3. A Lesson In Self Respect

_A/N: I do not use epithets, but since the euphemisms to which I must ofttimes resort can make for a distracting read in this case, asterisks will be used instead and the reader may imagine his or her own profanity as they so desire._

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_**A Lesson In Self-Respect**

The loud crash of something large and heavy smashing into the bulkhead in Miranda's office made Shepard wince, but it was the tinny, unmistakable sound of glass splintering that made him want to sprint. Instead, he walked calmly and coolly, the better to maintain the illusion that he was in control for the benefit of the crew. In reality, he was about as far from in control as could be. And judging by the voices he was hearing, if he didn't regain control, people were going to die.

The door snapped open. Something flew past his head.

"Touch me and I'll smear the walls with you, bitch!"

Much as he expected, Jack was tearing up the place. Paint had been peeled off the walls, floor and ceiling panels ripped out from the rivets, Miranda's desk lay upside down atop her bunk, the protective shutters had closed over the viewport which had been violently cracked. Miranda stood impassively in the of the wrecked office surrounded by a shimmering biotic field, her face seething with exasperation while Jack's projectiles ricocheted off her barrier.

"Enough!" Shepard bellowed. "Not on my ship! Both of you, stand down!"

Jack twitched at the interruption and nearly threw something at him. Impetuously naked, she was wearing nothing but a blue sheen of furious biotics and a scathing glare. "The cheerleader won't admit what Cerberus did to me was wrong!" she snarled.

Miranda's lip curled with scorn. "It wasn't Cerberus, not really. Clearly you were a mistake," she retorted.

"Screw you!" Jack tore a light fixture out of the ceiling and hurled it Miranda. It popped against the wall with a noise like a flashbang grenade. "You've got no idea what they put me through!" she hissed. "Maybe I'll show you!"

"I said enough!" Shepard shouted, biotics lighting up his arms as he shoved Jack and Miranda away from each other. "I will not tolerate this from either of you. Our fight is with the Collectors—not each other! So save your anger and put your motherf***ing vendettas on hold, and don't even think about touching my ship again! Am I entirely clear?"

"Perfectly," Miranda said icily. "I can put aside my differences."

Jack's biotics spluttered with rage. "Sure, I'll do my part," she fumed, sneering at Miranda. "I'd hate for her to die before I get a chance to flay her myself!"

She turned abruptly, cutting off any further conversation as she shoved past Shepard on her way out the door. "Get the f*** out of my way!" she howled at an unfortunate Cerberus crewman out of sight.

Miranda sighed and pushed some hair from her face. "Thanks for stepping in, Commander." It was obvious she was about as far from pleased as could be, but she shrugged and let down her biotic barrier. "That wouldn't have ended well for her," she said in a last flash of venom.

"I can't have you two at each other's throats like this," Shepard said flatly. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Miranda rolled her desk back onto the floor. "Not from my part, Shepard. Maybe you should ask Jack that question."

He found Jack in the engine, as usual, down on the lower level with most of the lights turned off. She heard him the instant he started coming down the stairs.

"Leave me the f*** alone, Shepard!" Jack snapped.

She still hadn't put any clothes on, but with every inch of her body covered with tattoos it almost made no difference. Sitting on the edge of her spare cot, Jack was twisting the tough leather cords which comprised her top over and over on her callused hands, wound them so tightly her knuckles were white.

"Jack, if you have a problem with one of my crew, you have a problem with me," Shepard said carefully.

"'Your crew'," Jack taunted him viciously. "They're still Cerberus. Yeah, I've got a f***ing problem."

"Pragia's dead, for years it's been dead. Teltin's a smoking crater. The guards, the doctors who tortured you, the kids who hated you—they're all dead now," he reminded her patiently.

"You just don't get it, Shepard," Jack crowed from her cave. "Everything I ever did was because of them, it's their fault for torturing me for years and years. Cerberus is to blame for who I am, and I'm going to kill every last one of them, just to remind them who they screwed with. So tell your little cheerleader just because I have your back doesn't mean I'm looking out for hers. If she gets her cute little ass vaporized by a Collector I'm not gonna be crying about it."

"So everything is just Cerberus's fault?"

"I was wrong about you, Shepard, you're just as dumb as the rest. Of course it's their f***ing fault!" Biotics flashed from her hand, denting a pipe somewhere which then began to leak.

"Jack!" Shepard barked. "For once in your life, take some responsibility for yourself!

She gave him a bored look. "Take your crap somewhere else, Shepard."

"Jack, you're everything Cerberus wanted you to be, don't you see that? They won! Everything they put you through, all the tests, all the torture, it all worked—because you let them win."

At that, Jack shot to her feet, the glow of deadly biotics outlining her lean body in the darkened engine room. Murder was on her face. "I should f***ing kill you for that, Shepard," she growled menacingly. "I was a scared little kid, they tortured me and tortured me and tortured me. How else was I gonna turn out, huh! You're so f***ing smart, Shepard, you tell me!"

"But you were always stronger than the rest of them," Shepard said calmly.

"Of course I was," she snapped. "I escaped, I survived!"

"If you were that strong, then you were strong enough not to let them win."

"I hate you!" Jack shrieked.

"You hate me, fine. Then why don't you kill me and get it over with. Go ahead!"

The fierce blue biotic glow silhouetting Jack intensified, growing to the point where it seemed she had mustered enough biotic force to rip the Normandy in two. She looked dead-set on using it to obliterate Shepard, but she did nothing.

"f*** you, how are you doing that?" Jack cursed.

"Doing what?"

"Why won't you let me f***ing kill you!" she screamed.

"I'm not doing anything to you, Jack," he explained. "You are."

"F*** it all! You're not making sense!" The biotic field had begun to weaken.

"You don't really want to kill me."

"The f*** I f***ing do!" Jack howled, but still the blue glow lessened.

"You're starting to understand something about yourself. Cerberus may have given you the tools, and they gave you a good start, but you're the one who made you who you are."

"_They_ tortured _me_, it's their fault!" Jack hissed defensively.

Shepard clenched his fist. "Yes! Yes they tortured you! Yes they did unfathomable horrors to you and the other children! You might have been just a kid, but you were strong enough to make it out of there alive. You were strong enough to put it behind you, to leave Teltin rotting in its grave, but you didn't. There's only one thing worse than what Cerberus did to you, and that's what you're doing to yourself."

"What!"

His voice was hard. "Look at yourself, Jack. You are never going to amount to being more than just a psycho cooked up in a Cerberus lab, stuck in the rut you let them put you in. People will never respect you because you don't respect yourself."

"I got respect," Jack retorted.

"Wrong. You intimidate people and mistake that for respect," Shepard corrected her. "You can't get self-respect from other people. You have to earn it."

"I don't know what you're expecting from me, Shepard. They didn't exactly teach me to be nice and courteous to others while they were busy sticking me full of drugs and shocking me when I didn't fight hard enough," Jack snapped.

Shepard tossed her a shiny black shirt. "You can start by wearing a shirt out of respect for the rest of the crew."

She eyed it with suspicion. "What kind of a trick is this?"

"You're not a savage, Jack, you're a human being. Just wearing a shirt isn't going to take you all the way there, but it's a step toward showing Cerberus that they couldn't break you down into exactly what they wanted. Think about it."

Jack mused in silence for several minutes. "Fine," she said finally, dropping the shirt on the cot beside her. "But I'm still not watching the cheerleader's back."

Shepard grunted. One thing at a time. "Miranda never stormed your fortress, please stay out of hers and don't break any more windows," he requested. "I'd like to have a ship left to fight the Collectors with."

"Yeah, right, whatever." Jack clicked the lights on and glared at him impatiently, still as naked as ever. "So are you gonna, like, get lost or something and let me get dressed?"

Shepard started up the stairs. "I'm gone." Up above, Samara was waiting expectantly.

"Things went well, I take it?" the Justicar supposed aloud.

"Was it the no boom-boom or the lack of a mushroom cloud that gave it away?" Shepard chuckled. Samara answered him with a nonplussed stare. "Sorry, human jokes. Yes, I suppose it went as well as it could have. Were you really watching? Because I felt like you couldn't have possibly reacted in time if she'd wanted to-"

"If Jack had tried to harm you, kill you, she would have had no chance," Samara assured him. "Many suspects much more dangerous than her have tried, and all failed."

He laughed nervously. "Alright then. Well, I don't think she'll be an immediate problem, at least for a while. Thanks for the help."

"No thanks are required."

Shepard shook his head and started to leave. Just then, he heard Jack yelling a question up the stairwell at him. "Hey, Shepard? Who did you get this shirt from?"

Shepard smiled to himself. One thing at a time.


	4. Separation Anxiety

A/N: This is a companion piece to 'Wake'

Disclaimer: All lyrics used (We Still Fight) are the property of Jamie Jasta.

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This is dedicated to all the people who have given their lives to uphold their beliefs, not to those that try to demean their sacrifices—you have no right._

**Separation Anxiety**

It was a fabulous place. The finest on the Citadel, Shepard had been told, the finest place for an exquisite gourmet meal and an unparalleled selection of wines, catering exclusively to the human community. The atmosphere was a quiet, respectful hush and the soothing tinker of silver against porcelain and glass on glass. Well-dressed waiters and waitresses and guests moved about on rich carpets watched over by magnificent tapestries hung upon the walls wherever one looked. Candles glowed on every dark tabletop, and to the side a large crystal chandelier hung above a large dance floor where a number of couples moved slowly to an old-fashioned waltz played on authentic instruments.

Shepard observed everything as he was led past the tables occupied by the rich and the famous; corporate owners or diplomats, film stars, even a five-star Alliance Admiral and his wife. In a far corner, at a table by himself, a thin man clasped his hands in prayer. Training and battlefield experience demanded he examine the area and note points of exit, defensible positions, the layout and composition of the crowd, the nearest place he could expect to find a weapon, and who he could turn to for back-up in case of any situation he couldn't handle on his own.

He did his best to suppress these ingrained habits, the last thing he wanted to do this evening was think business. Everything was perfect, down to the chafing black dress clothes without one stitch of military influence, down to the flower on his lapel. John Frederick Shepard was leaving "Commander" at the door for just a few hours. The music of Brahms drifted to his ears and he smiled, recognizing the sweet sounds of home.

"Your guest, Miss Penelope," the maître d'hôtel announced when Shepard arrived at the table.

She was dressed in a strapless gown of light coral silk, her hair was pinned in its customary bun by two thin crystal spikes. Shepard smelled her sweet lavender perfume as he kissed her hand with a flourish.

"You look gorgeous tonight, Ash."

She winked at him. "You don't look too bad yourself, skipper."

"Penelope?" he asked as they sat down to the table.

Ashley Madeline Williams shrugged her bare shoulders. "Fancy place, fancy name. It's a basic rule, you have to know this. Williams isn't sophisticated enough, why do you think I bothered with the fancy dress?"

"Here I was thinking you wanted to impress me. Consider me impressed."

"Shepard, you shameless charmer, it's part of the role. To fit in at a place like this, you need two things: fancy clothes and a fancy name."

"Ash, I can't think of a name that would sound fancier to me than Williams," he admitted truthfully. "Plenty of stuffier names, certainly, but one concrete thing I've learned about you is you're anything but stuffy."

"No room for stuffiness among friends?"

Shepard smiled. "It would be quite impossible for you to be stuffy, Ash. And honestly, if anyone should be worried about having a not-fancy-enough name, it's me. I've got a name that conjures thoughts of herds of sheep, tell me that belongs in a place like this."

Ashley smiled again. "You're incorrigible."

"I try."

An impeccably dressed waiter arrived at the table. "Welcome to Paradise, my name is Taylor and I'll be your waiter this evening. May I interest you in one of our prized wines to start things off?"

Shepard was about to answer no before Ashley spoke up. "Yes, do you have a recommendation?"

"The vintages from Lauze Nokoncy are exceptionally fine; it's a rich burgundy with notes of mellow pine teas."

"Do you have the '77?" she asked.

"Indeed we do. Excellent choice." The waiter made a note on his antiquated paper pad. "I'll bring that out to you right away."

"Thank you." Ashley looked back at Shepard. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You should really have a glass of wine every once in a while, skipper. How else am I supposed to loosen you up?"

He shifted in his chair. "Am I really that stiff?"

"Well, unless there's a wooden plank down the back of your shirt..." she said with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

This 'relaxed' thing was going to need some work, Shepard thought. With familiar ease he closed his eyes and practiced tensing and then relaxing his muscles while he tapped his fingers on the pristine white tablecloth with its subtle hexagonal pattern. He opened them upon the delivery to the table of the bottle of '77 Lauze Nokoncy. Ashley had been watching him the entire time.

"Was that something you learned on Myrmida?" she asked while the waiter set down the wine glasses and uncorked the decadent vintage, letting its deep aroma waft over the table.

Shepard nodded. "When alternative therapies failed they went back to the basics, which they should have tried in the first place. I used to have nervous seizures, but it turned out that getting my mind probed wasn't the answer, so they taught me some relaxation techniques to go along with the rest of the therapy and a few cybernetics they were using to help with the brain chemistry problems." He shrugged away the thoughts of that time. "It's an easy training to fall back on, especially these days."

Ashley took a luxuriant sip of her wine. "So Admiral Hackett recruited you for Internals Affairs straight out of Myrmida? What was it like on Langley Station?"

It gave him the creeps was the truth of it. The little-known, ghostlike watchdog of Arcturus Station tracked every military transmission in Alliance space, yet the headquarters for Alliance Internal Affairs where he'd held his 'recuperative' transitional job coming out of Myrmida was like an information black hole; everything went in for intense scrutiny, but next to nothing came out.

"Different," he said with a dismissive shrug. "A far cry from the front lines, which I guess was the point of it, Hackett was handling me cautiously. But it was still an assignment, still important, and by that time I was desperate to be back at work. I couldn't stand the doctors and the white walls anymore.

"But you'd hate it, Ash. Politicians dropping by every few days, more protocol than the race of man knows what to do with, and most of your time spent digging up dirt on fellow soldiers."

"So you'd find people for them to give crap assignments?" Her voice had an edge to it and he understood why. The name Williams curried no favor on Langley Station.

"What I did mostly was identify people of ours who needed help," he answered carefully. "People suffering from post-traumatic stress, paranoia, nervous breaks. It was my job to get them off the front lines. There's a lot of messed up people in the Alliance, Ash."

Ashley nodded. "I understand. Back when I was still an FNG, in my first combat squad we had a private named Mendoza who would go a little nuts after a few drinks. He'd go off and say things like how man wasn't meant to be in space or we'd all left our souls back on Earth. We all thought he'd shake it off when he got sober, but he never really let go of it, and he got worse every time he found a way to get drunk. I felt a little sorry for Mendoza, and I worried how he was gonna hold up in an actual combat situation. But eventually he got pulled from our rotation, and I never saw him again. About a week later I heard he was getting psychotherapy."

Shepard took a dainty sip of his wine. "You see? Us spooks aren't all bad."

Ashley smiled. "Skipper, if you think having a little cloak-and-dagger work in your file is gonna get you off the hook for this romantic date of ours, you've got another thing coming."

"Cheers to that," he said. "So what will take to convince you I'm not worth your time?"

"Afraid you don't have a snowball's chance in hell of that, sir."

They both laughed.

A few minutes later a thin, slight girl wearing a veil over her face arrived with their entrees. Shepard didn't remember actually ordering, but there were other things on his mind and it didn't seem important. After thanking the server it was his turn to sit and stare as he had so often wanted to do recently, while Ashley expertly picked at her plate.

The one still picture he had of her simply could not do her justice, that charmingly subtle, unapologetic beauty of a homegrown girl who stuck to her guns. He carried her picture even now in an inside jacket pocket; it was his constant reminder of why he strapped a rifle to his back every day. He only wished he had thought to make a recording of her laugh, her old-fashioned honest laugh that spoke volumes of her hearty soul and even heartier wit.

Shepard missed her terribly.

Seeing his stare, Ashley asked, "What? Is there something on my face?" She had a wry look in her eyes.

"No, but I'd like to put a kiss there if you don't mind," Shepard said with a grin.

Ashley flung a piece of lettuce at him with her fork. She giggled. "Now how's that for a first date. Why does it seem to be working?"

Before he could reply, Shepard was approached by another of the hotel staff, a perky woman with short red hair. "Mr. Shepard, you have a message at the desk."

Shepard groaned inwardly. One night, that was all he asked, one night free of obligations and distractions. But apparently it wasn't to be. He gave Ashley a helpless look.

"Go ahead, Shepard, I'll wait," she said.

"Okay, I'm coming," Shepard told the lady and started to rise from the table. "One more thing," he said to Ashley. "Penelope had to wait twenty years for Odysseus to come back, I hope that's not a reflection of your confidence in me."

Ashley scrunched up her nose and brow and shook her head. "Still joking, I see. We should talk about this humor of yours, skipper."

"I'm afraid I'm still hopeless."

"Hopeless? No. Maybe shameless," she concluded. "But worth it."

"I'll be back, Ash."

"I know you will, John. So go save the universe."

Reluctantly, he turned away from the table, from Ashley, and from his coveted time alone with her, and followed the woman to the front desk where his message waited at a blinking terminal.

Shepard knew who it was waiting for him at the other end of the line. He didn't want to answer but he knew he had to. He felt as if the eyes of everyone he'd seen this evening were on him, watching him, waiting to see if he would put his feet on the path he knew had to be walked in spite of its difficulty. They were all watching him; the man praying in the corner, the waiter and his wine, the serving girl who hid her face, even the red-haired hostess.

There was no name attached to the message, but he knew exactly who it was, and answering him was the last thing he wanted to do.

Shepard reached into his jacket and took out his photograph of Ashley.

Some things were worth fighting for, dying for.

There was a loud crash and his entire world shook as a rocket smashed into the organic pillar he crouched behind, the EMP staticking out his radio feed for a few seconds. Beside him, Krios and Lawson were poised on the edge, unloading death on the insectoid enemies amassed at the other end of the chamber. He hesitated a moment longer to burn the image on his photograph into his mind, then quickly tucked it back away in a pocket.

The sharp crack of Krios's sniper rifle was followed by a momentary lull in the ferocious gunfire. Lawson's voice buzzed in his ear-piece. "Come on, Commander, we need to move!"

"Moving!" he shouted in response.

Gripping his rifle, he leaped into the fray.

_For those who fought for our rights, and for those who gave their lives, and for the families whose loved ones died; it's their honor for which we still fight._


End file.
